


broken shards.

by freiline



Series: Scarred Sanctuary [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 06:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freiline/pseuds/freiline
Summary: two heads, especially during a bout ofsuffering, are better than one.





	broken shards.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Another's Arms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/865322) by [Everlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind). 



> inspired by one of the great everlind's previous works because i thought why not challenge myself and see if i can build upon it and make it a _really_ slow burn?
> 
> i wrote the end, if anyone's interested, after listening to "words" by aimer. i love aimer.

"Why _my_ room?"

"Because!" Mukahi starts off with what could only be the strongest of stances known to man, since beginning an explanation with an exclaimed "because" has _always_ proved to help one's claim. Shishido gives a roll of his eyes. "Your room's the neatest amongst all of ours. And I have a lot of things."

The evident eye roll was now replaced by a look of bewilderment, his eyebrows bunching up towards the center of his forehead and confusion in his voice. "But it's just... a 3 day camp...?"

Why he even bothered to speak was foolish of him (how lame), given that his two new guests had seemingly chosen to ignore his existence in favour of pulling out copious amounts of snacks to lay waste to his bed. He'd kick them both out, tell them to go back to their own designated rooms, but he never had much say in matters within the trio for all his reputable stubbornness (and de facto leadership). The moment he swung open the door they immediately swooped in and made themselves comfortable on his bed, as though common courtesy and social boundaries were luxuries they could live without. At least, in the company of childhood friends.

Shishido sighed, a heavy grumble that reverberated within the walls of his throat. He makes use of the end of the towel hung from his neck to toussle his hair, usually tied up into a neat little ponytail but now let loose to dry in the privacy of his own room, falling in layers and framing his face. He started growing it out again since graduating juniour high school and remembers just a few months ago when it reached the treacherous awkward stage, when strands would stick out haphazardly towards all directions possible and all that could be done to tame it was the use of everyone's favourite Gatsby. It was particularly worse whenever he'd just come out of a shower, freshly shampooed mane free from the natural oils that could at least try to weigh the strands down (gross, he knows, which was why he's glad to have gone past that phase).

But now it looked presentable. Good, even, if he could say so himself. While he had to admit that at some point he enlisted the help of a professional hair dresser nearing the end of the awkward stage when he was just about ready to throw in the towel and call it quits, all the effort to get it to its current stage was all his; all the conditioners (lots of conditioners), all the patience. Now it was healthy and more importantly, free from the damage caused by when he chopped a huge chunk of it off to prove his dedication to the team. To tennis.

"You think we should ask Yuushi if he wants to join?"

Shishido looks over at Mukahi when he spoke up. "You think he'd wanna join?" It wasn't as if he had anything against the tennis genius. Shishido was never the type who could feign pleasantries in the face of someone he hated and given how he once tagged along with Oshitari when the latter went back to visit his home city of Osaka, surely he harboured no negative feelings (of that sort, at least, since Oshitari was still a pain in the ass) towards the fakely bespectacled male. His cause for opposition was simply based on the notion that he figured Oshitari would much prefer to spend his time reading those romance novels of his he so enjoyed, rather than fool around with people he spent the entire day with already.

Mukahi shrugs and fishes out his phone. "No harm asking."

"Wait." Shishido holds up his hand to pause Mukahi in his tracks and takes a good look down at his bed, scanning through the various articles that now cluttered atop the previously barren mattress. "No drinks?"

Mukahi and Jirou looked down at the congregational pile smack in the middle of Shishido's bed. There were boxes of Pocky in a handful of different flavours, because Jirou liked mousse Pocky while Mukahi found it too much (and Shishido didn't care because Pocky usually never disappointed regardless of flavour), little bags of Calbee (also in an assortment of flavours), and even a little box of mint chocolates (which were mainly for him, his friends knew him well).

But nothing to wash it all down with.

"Sorry, Ryou." Jirou looks up at Shishido, brown eyes large and bambish, and smiles sheepishly. "Had the feeling we were forgetting something. I'll follow you?"

Shishido shakes his head and simply reaches out to grab the plastic bag from the bed that once contained all the snacks, walking over to the desk to retrieve his wallet and phone (God forbid he left his phone in the mercy of his two privacy-invading friends) and keep away his towel. "I'll go. The usual's fine, right? I'll stop by Oshitari's room while I'm at it."

"We love you, Ryou!"

"Yea, yea," Shishido waves off Mukahi's ever-sincere proclamation of love behind him, running his free hand through damp hair and sweeping back the strands that fell onto his face. The only vending machines within the building were located at and near the lobby, and so begins the humdrum journey from his room down to the first floor. He decides that the lift was lame — able-bodied athlete as he was — in the process of exiting his room and makes a turn at the corner, pushing open the door leading into the stairway and letting it slam shut on its own as he goes down ahead.

Of course Atobe would immediately brandish his captaincy the moment he caught grasp of it, ever ready to show his skilled diplomacy and good relations with the Girls Tennis Club by organising a joint tennis camp. The only thing that surprised him was how they remained in Japan this time around — he recalls the training camps from junior high when they went to Switzerland and Canada. Maybe he was saving the big guns for later on in the year, though Atobe was not known to hold back on anything; if he wanted that overseas training camp, they would be off in foreign land right this very moment.

Shishido soon reaches the ground floor and pushes past the door, focus already on the vending machines to the right of him but the voice of another immediately catching his attention.

"I like you."

That voice... Distant as it was (perhaps it was coming from around the corner to his left), he knows that voice all too well. He's heard that voice time again speak in its owner's signature low drawls, heard it coo at him with a nonchalance to annoy when he lost a match or got lamely reprimanded by their coach, even got lectured once by that voice on how one must always appreciate the finer details in shit romance movies.

Hearing Oshitari confess was by no means revolutionary or a brand new discovery; while he hadn't exactly caught the genius in the act, Oshitari's list of past flames was enough of a track record to speak for itself. It's the target of Oshitari's affection that leaves Shishido speechless.

"I've liked you for a while now, Atobe. Maybe even since our second year of junior high school, I've already felt something for you. I never wanted to burden you with this, I know you already have so much on your plate but I couldn't keep it in any longer. I like you, Atobe, and I think I'm falling in love with you."

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. That's a _serious_ confession.

Shishido doesn't hold it past Oshitari to be the king of all that was mushy and lovey-dovey, but this... This was not just some crappy romance novel with cliche professions of love and dramatic sobfests aplenty. This was real life, these were his friends. Two good friends of his who he's suffered through hell-brought-to-Earth training sessions with, teammates who he'd (as much as he would never verbally, out loud admit to them) stick by with no matter what, comrades on the tennis courts.

"Oshitari, I..."

Oh no. No no, he couldn't hear this, he simply couldn't. Shishido can't deny that on occasion he really hates Oshitari's guts, but he would never wish upon him a pain as soul crushing as heartbreak. He recalls his first encounter with the chest-aching emotion; anyone would consider swearing off all opportunities for love after that debilitating experience. It was an experience he could do without ever again, as he's sure everyone feels as well, so how could he ever wish that upon his friend?

He tries to tune Atobe's voice out, finally coming back to his senses after the surprise wore off and seeing how obtrusive he was being. He quietly retreats back behind the door and closes it shut for good measure, but the conversation doesn't last any longer.

"I'm sorry."

He hears footsteps and through the little window on the door sees Atobe's figure appear right before the lift. Immediately Shishido registers that Atobe could at any moment turn around and look straight ahead, find him hiding behind the door and having heard all that just occurred, so he quickly ducks to the side of the little window away from potential view. A ding from the lift pierces through the air, its doors are opened and are soon closed again once the passenger boards, and Shishido soon hears another familiar sound.

Soft sniffles, little bursts of inhalation kept as silent as possible (probably doesn't even want to risk the possibility of another person hearing even if, to his own knowledge at least, he was the only one around). Soon they turn into small sobs and Shishido's chest begins to squeeze, lips pursed tight and fingers balled up into a fist. If the air had been heavy at first, it was now dreary and gloomy. Like all happiness had been sucked away and all that was left was the despair of a broken heart, shattered into a million pieces onto the ground and left for its owner to mend the pieces.

In the silence of the night, everything magnified intensely. Oshitari's heartwrenching cries of a love now lost, the crinkle of plastic between his tight grip, and his own pulse gone out of beat. Shishido wants to go over to him, pull him in for a tight hug and give him the strength to let out all the anguish. They were _friends_ , for God's sake, surely it wasn't lame to be there for a friend. Especially a friend who he knew almost _always_ had it all together and needed for someone to be there with him.

But Oshitari was a friend he knew well. He wouldn't want anyone near him at the moment, Shishido reckons, wouldn't want to see him this vulnerable and left at the mercy of his breaking heart.

And so he stays there, listening to all the agonising sounds of his friend's heartbreak.

Feeling completely useless.


End file.
